Philosophies
by Lonewolf77
Summary: House and the team debate various truths, beliefs, and laws with a young but unusual patient who has a very different set of world views. Written to be somewhat intellectually stimulating. Rated for language and drug use references.


I've always loved all the ethical, social, and religious debates included in House. So I wanted to right some of my own. This patient sits somewhere between House Training and the end of season 3.

* * *

The first thing Foreman noticed was the scars on her arm. Two tiny hole-shaped scars right at the juncture of her left elbow; a junkie's arm. Of course the rest of her image certainly didn't help to dismiss that initial assessment; eyes outlined in black, straight, sort of piecy brown hair that looked like something she pulled it from a Japanese cartoon, and an expression that was clearly meant to say "fuck off".

Foreman had to keep his face neutral. Professionalism was above all.

"Good Morning, Mrs…" he glanced at the file, "Vargas. I'm Dr. Foreman, part of the diagnostics department that admitted you."

She didn't answer right away, instead looking at him through the various cracks of her shaggy bangs. Studying him. Sizing him up. It unnerved him a bit.. Suddenly her eyes found his face and she smiled a smile way too bright for someone in her position.

"Hola." She said. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"My boss would have." And he cracked a smirk upon realizing that House actually _would_ forget he had a patient.

"Your boss not the responsible type?"

"Not in the least."

"And you are?"

"I'd like to think so."

She paused for a moment. "So why aren't you boss then?"

Foreman was taken aback by the question. He was used to the random, often blunt questions from House, even Cameron and Chase from time to time, but usually never from patients. And never one as personal as that.

"Because he's a great doctor." What a lame answer, if one could even call it that. It didn't really answer anything, but Foreman wasn't about to get into the details of his professional life with this girl. But with that crappy explanation, he steeled himself for the next question of 'aren't you a great doctor' he knew was coming.

Or at least though was coming.

"Hmm."

Another pause.

"So how do we get started on this whole 'figure out what's wrong with me' thing?"

Again Foreman was thrown for a loop. He was so used to everyone around him pushing and digging for answers that this girl's easy dismissal of a personal subject was…strange.

"Well, we'll start off with basic information and work our way from there. First thing I'm going to do is get a history. I know there's one in the chart, but we like to get our own. We ask a little more…detailed…questions."

She chuckled a bit at that. "Some people don't ask the right questions?"

"Nope.

She smirked. "Aight, sounds fun. Go for it."

"Alright."

Foreman sat down on the stool next to the bed; chart and pen ready to go.

"Name?"

"A.L. Vargas"

"Full name please."

"That is my full name."

"…alright. Date of birth?"

"April 4th 1985"

"Occupation?"

She took a moment before answering.

"Musician."

"Have any major medical problems?"

"Not that I know of."

"Any surgeries?"

"Once in '99. Took a leap off a 15 foot ledge and didn't land right and broke a leg. Healed up nicely though and haven't had a problem with it since."

Foreman considered asking for the story behind that, but then realized he probably didn't want to know.

"Do you smoke?"

"Used to. Not so much anymore."

"Drink?

"Oh yeah."

"How much?"

"A lot."

"How much is a lot?"

"Put it this way, I'm usually sober less than 50% of the time."

"Are you intoxicated now?"

"I wish."

"Do you use drugs?"

"Absolutely."

The nonchalance tone in which she gave these confessions irritated him. And he found he had to fight a bit to keep the disdain from his voice.

"Which ones?"

"Recently or ever."

"Both."

"In the past three months…lets see: smoked pot. Snorted a couple of lines of coke. Dropped acid twice – no – three times. Did mushrooms three times. DMT once. Think that's it for the most part."

"And ever?" He glanced down at the holes in her arms. She followed his gaze.

"Those are from a way long time ago. Did it twice and gave it the finger. No more for me. As for ever…well I'm pretty sure I've done everything you can do at least once."

At this point, Foreman couldn't help but ask "And you're wondering why you're sick?"

As soon as the question left his mouth, he immediately wanted to take it back. Not because he felt personally bad about asking it but because he was worried that this girl would be offended or worse. And Foreman didn't want to deal House or Cuddy if someone complained about him.

To his surprise she laughed. "I was wondering if someone was ever gonna have the balls to ask that question. Kinda obvious don't you think?" Her eyes wandered around the room as she continued to chuckle. Finally she looked back to him.

"Of course I've considered that. And in fact I would not be the least bit surprised it was. But something tells me it goes a little more down the rabbit hole than merely my simple drug use."

"I wouldn't call your drug use 'simple.'" If she had heard the veiled arrogance in his tone she didn't acknowledge it.

"Well I guess I wouldn't either. And it's probably not going to stop either way."

"Why should we treat you then?"

She finally looked at him with a somewhat surprised expression and Foreman couldn't help but feel a little smug that he finally seemed to make her register something.

"If we diagnose and treat you for a drug related illness, and you get out of here and continue doing the same crap to your body, why even come here at all?"

She looked straight ahead, seeming to mull over the question.

"Well first off that's assuming that it is drug related. Obviously you'll need to test for that but for the purpose of this argument, let's say it is. Holy shit we have a diagnosis: it's a drug related illness or condition or whatever. Now you treat it, if you can. And stuff happens and I get a clean bill of health. How is that process any different from any other patient you save?"

"They don't poison their bodies for one."

"Bullshit. What about the 35 year old guy going in for heart surgery because all he has eaten for the last 10 years in McDonalds, Baskin Robbins, and bacon. Or the guy who has to get knee replacements at the before his 40th because he jogged a shit ton and pretty much wore them out from overuse. Or the skier the breaks both legs skiing off-_pieste_. People drink. People smoke. I've always considered people who take Xanex to be socially acceptable drug addicts. People do shit to themselves all the time but you don't have any problem with them. It's all about what you consider being 'ok' and 'not ok'."

"Those are prescription drugs. That are regulated and controlled."

"Yeah and you know the reason the majority of people get them? Because their lives suck. Same reason most people do drugs. Because it's way better to live in a dream than the real world. And regulated? Maybe in the hospital, but I could walk you down a street and find at least five people selling them for dirt cheap. Don't get me started on the legality issue. It's a shit argument; more so coming from you I think. That's not really your problem. Either you've had a bad experience with drugs or someone you knew did. What happened? Dad take a little to many rolls in the snow and end up in a shootout on the interstate?"

Foreman was sure that any second now the pen he was holding would snap. Visibly seeing the tension, her expression changed to one of shock and disbelief.

"Oh shit, don't tell me that that's what really happened."

Foreman forced himself to calm down. No use getting angry over her insinuations. However close they might be.

"No it's not." He said in a surprisingly stoic manner.

"Good, because that would have been rather bizarre. And funny."

"Yeah. Real funny."

"You really don't approve of my humor do you?"

"You're imagining things. My opinion means nothing."

"It does to you. And you don't approve of me."

Silence.

"In fact I would so far as to say you kind of hate me right now."

She leaned forward a bit and just looked at him. She didn't seem upset; on the contrary Foreman could swear he saw laughter dancing in her eyes and it only served to irritate him more.

It doesn't bother me. I'm just curious."

"You want to know what I really think?"

"…yeah…"

"I think you're just some pathetic street junkie who does what she wants, when she wants, and how she wants. I suspect you have a great distaste for authority and rules, and have probably had more than one run in with the police. So you've stolen a car, or robbed a gas station, or mugged somebody; it doesn't make you a badass, just a loser with nothing else to do. I've been there and done that. It's nothing special. You're nothing special. Get back in school and find a job. Make something out of yourself. "

"Like you did?"

It was that question that brought Foreman out of the state he had been in. Everything that he and Marcus had ever done and had gone through, were _still_ going through, was practically embodied by the girl sitting in front of him. And he couldn't help but be judgmental. Lupe had been right when she told him that he looked down on anybody who couldn't do what he did. He just didn't want to believe it.

He still doesn't want to.

"Um…a nurse will be in here shortly to collect the samples for tests."

And with that he walked over and opened the door.

"Foreman."

He stopped and turned.

"The consequences are mine alone. All I want from you is an answer."

She was then reaching beside her bed and digging through the contents of her backpack. Pulling out what looked to him like a CD, she tossed his way.

As he caught it she said "And you were right."

He looked up.

"About you?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"People don't ask the right questions."


End file.
